


O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

by LettreDeMarque



Series: The Other!Fic [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character death (Off Screen), Mythology - Freeform, Original side characters, a fanfiction based of another fanfiction, but some get better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettreDeMarque/pseuds/LettreDeMarque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Stiles is killed by Peter (don't worry it's temporary) Scott and company flee to Argentina to escape the disaster that has befallen and all but destroyed Beacon Hills. Unable to accept the loss of his comrades, Scott goes on a quest to the Spirit World to try and bring back his friends from the dead, unfortunately according to Spirit Law he can only bring back one and that is IF the higher powers take pity on the poor, down trodden soul. </p><p>Or</p><p>How Scott brought Stiles back from the dead Orpheus style with a happier ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O' Brother, Where Art Thou?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Play It Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/862320) by [metisket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metisket/pseuds/metisket). 



> So I was reading [Play It Again](http://archiveofourown.org/works/862320) for the fifth or sixth time because it is an AWESOME fic and my new favorite. When suddenly I start thinking about what might have happened to Scott and company in Argentina, and why Argentina? And I thought, well what if they try to bring Stiles back from the dead and accidentally brought Other!Stiles back instead. Before I know it I have an 8K fic on my hands after four days of typing at which point my brain was like "TRILOGY! See? You already have a part one done!" So now it's like a commitment. 
> 
> I also drew some inspiration from [Once Bitten](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1149809) by minkscantsew so if you haven't checked out either fic I encourage you to drop everything and do so. This is my first attempt at a Teen Wolf Fic so I cannot do enough justice for either fics for being so inspirational, but I hope you all enjoy all the same.

Scott McCall looked over the Río de la Plata solemnly as the first rays of sunlight blessed the waters with the promise of a new day. For Scott, however, the new day was just another burden for him to bear with his few remaining companions, Lydia, Erica, Isaac, Scott's mom, and Stiles's father. They had been the only ones to make it out of Beacon Hills alive.

"Buenos días, lobito," a cheerful voice greeted. Gabriel Alaverez, the Alpha of the local pack, had given the refugees a warm welcome. The older wolf, appearing to the human eye to be no older than his late thirties, but wise beyond his appearance placed a comforting hand on Scott's shoulder.

 "I'm not small," Scott muttered bitterly. With little else to do but mourn, Scott's grasp of the Spanish language had improved.

 "No, niño," Gabriel acknowledge with his dark features softened by sympathy. "But you _feel_ small. I can see the weight of the world is upon your shoulders.”

 The older wolf stepped back and said, “It pains me to see such a young spirit so down trodden. There is no shame in running, niño. You were faced with odds that would be considered unfair even for a pack like mine twenty strong. I am sorry for the loss of your friends, but you must not let their sacrifice be in vain."

 Scott choked on a sob unable to utter the terrible truth. Stiles was dead. He was slain by Peter as they fled the unnatural disaster that had befallen their home. Beacon Hills was all but gone. Gabriel had kept an ear out for news. The higher authorities were baffled by the ensuing events that resulted in a complete massacre and leveled the city, but Scott knew the truth. 

 Gerard had been responsible. Some sick, twisted desire to live beyond his time fueled by an unnatural lust for power had caused the old hunter to lose his mind. Even Gerard’s family hadn't been safe from the path of destruction. Allison was also dead.

 Hunters from around the world had been alerted to the event. The hunters were taking care of damage control under Chris Argent’s command leaving Scott and company to lick their wounds and wait for their fragile hearts to mend.

 "Argentina means 'silver' doesn't it?" Scott asked absently while letting his mind sink back into a save haze of denial.

" _Sí_ , she is named after a legend." Gabriel nodded allowing for the distraction. "You have heard of El Dorado, the city of gold." The older wolf chuckled. "Argentina's name comes from the French L'Argent. You are familiar with the hunters who have taken that name as their own, but it is older than their corrupted lore. The Silver Mountains is a story passed down through the ages so long that none save a very few recall its meaning. Much like El Dorado, the conquistadors sought in vain for the rumored precious metals hidden in the land. You will find little silver here. Under our pack law this land is a haven for all wolves that need rest."

 Scott’s shoulders slumped as he remembered from whom he had learned about Gabriel’s pack and who had come up with the plan to meet in Argentina.

 "Oh, pup.” Gabriel cooed with compassion. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven,” he said. "It is your time to mourn your loss so that the time you may laugh can come again. Come to the next sermon. The Good Lord will give you strength when you have none. You must learn, in time, to let go and accept your losses. The time will come."

 A soft snort interrupted Gabriel's moment. The alpha sighed and turned to face the old woman, human mostly, dressed in layers of ill-matched silks of all colors with wool stockings and a green cloak to warn off the chill.

 "Living up to your name sake, Gabriel?" the woman taunted.

 The woman’s hair was almost completely white and looked odd tied atop her caramel-colored form. She was tiny compared to the rest of the pack members and she had very pronounced laugh lines of someone who was more often amused than not. Scott didn’t think the woman was really pack, but Gabriel’s demeanor suggested the woman was an inherited relative, like a great aunt twice removed or something.

 "I agree completely,” she said. "It would do the young man good to lead a humble life free of the promises of greatness that come with being a true alpha."

 "Go away witch," Gabriel ordered. "You're getting up in the years and I'm worried you're spewing nonsense. Can't you see the boy's been through enough?"

 "You're never too old for a life lesson _or_ ," the woman enunciated the word before adding, "a little _perspective_."

 The old woman sat down on a bolder and folded her hands neatly in her lap. "Here's a funny tale; Out of the desert far, far on the other side of the world an unnamed god speaks and says, _'I am the one true god. Obey my laws and I shall lead your people to glory'_. Did no one find that strange?” she asked. “A god no one had heard of suddenly claiming to be all powerful beyond all others. A god with no name making promises of glory and asking next to nothing in return and no one stopped to think that sounds too good to be true?”  

 She tilted her head and placed an aged finger to the corner of her lip to hide a coy smile and said, “Oh, wait. _Everyone_ did. That's why the one human who claimed to have heard this god had to take his family and leave their homeland."

 Gabriel growled. "Do not mock the Lord just because your gods are dead."

 "Your ancestral gods are not dead, young man." The woman replied sternly, "They are not even sleeping. They are alive and well and how foolish are you that you think they need humanity's acknowledgement? Do the gods need your permission to exist? It's not my business that you choose to turn a deaf ear to them no more than it is your business that I keep an open mind."

 Gabriel sighed. "Don't give the boy false hope."

 "You miss understand the nature of hope if you believe it is in my power to give it," the old woman retorted with amusement.

 "Wait," Scott interjected. "Hope for what?"

 The old woman turned a sly eye to Scott and jerked her head in Gabriel's direction.  "Take the old alpha's advice, go to church on Sunday," she said.

 "Old?" Gabriel coughed in surprise. "That's rich coming from you."

 The woman ignored him and continued. "Gabriel means well." She spoke in a rich, accented voice letting the words flow and blanket the young man in comfort. "Time will ease your pain. It will never vanish, it will be with you for all your days, but you are not the only one in the world who knows grief and loss. Our pack can help you get back on your feet. You will meet new people and learn to cherish them as strongly as you cherish the past and your new friends will lead you forward."

 "Perhaps for once in your life you will attend the service yourself," Gabriel suggested to the woman. “Then it won’t sound hypocritical for you to suggest it to others.”

 The woman waved her hand at the alpha dismissively.

 "Bah,” she scoffed. “Why go to a doctor when I am not ill?”

 Somehow looking modestly feeble despite being able to verbally abuse and alpha without fear of retribution the woman bemoaned, “I am old and easily made tired by unnecessary words."

 The old woman threw up her hands and spoke up in a mocking tone. "This is a sin,” she said. “That is a sin. Whether it is eating the wrong food or courting a socially unacceptable mate, it is boring. My life is too short to be wasted by such nonsense."

 The woman turned back to Scott. "Do you know the definition of a sin, niño?"

 Scott shook his head. "Honestly I never thought about it. My family's not exactly religious."

 "Of course." the old woman nodded again. "It took years but I finally found an honest padre to tell me the truth. A sin is anything that cuts short your life. A life without sin grants one immortality. This is why your enemies’ efforts are in vain.  Your foes will never grasp this truth and they will fall into the arms of death like all things." Her voice dropped to a hushed, seductive tone and the woman raised a suggestive eyebrow. "Did you know? In Spanish Death is a _woman_."

 Gabriel rolled his eyes.

 "Death," the old woman continued. "She is the one lover who will never betray you. She always keeps you in her heart. When your time comes, niño, don't fight her. Embrace her caress. Let her take you to a better place."

 The old woman stood up and placed her hands on Scott's shoulders and he let the woman massage his triceps in short comforting strokes.

 "Your friends are alright," she told him. "Listen to me. I may be old and witchy as humans come, but I _know_.  Your friends are in a better place now. There is no hell for those who are loving and brave. Live your life as they would want you to. Grieve for them, but eventually move on. This is Gabriel's way and he is wise. The key to happiness is to live a humble life. I promise you that is the truth."

 "You said that's Gabriel's way," Scott said sounding slightly confused. "What is _your_ way?"

 The old woman smirked. "Mine is the way of old magic. My way is for foolish children who cannot accept their reality as it is. It is dangerous and filled with disappointment and empty promises. But let me ask you this: Is there anything you wouldn't do if you could meet your friends once again?"

* * *

"Call me 'Granny Maria'," the old human told him as she placed her hand on Scott's elbow. He escorted the technicolored woman in a manner in which a gentleman would escort a fine young lady back to the village.

The little neighborhood where Gabriel's pack made their home was a self governing entity with its own town hall and village officials. Their main industry was tourism with four bed-and-breakfast villas and two bars. It was a place where people could come to get away from it all.

Scott fervently wished that were true. The village was called El Pueblo de Nuestra Guadian El Rey del Río Plateado,  _The Town of our Guardian the King of the Silver River_ , but no one could tell Scott how the village had come about that name. Most people just called the village “El Rey del Río Plateado”.

They passed one of the bed-and-breakfasts and Scott could see his mother through a kitchen window washing dishes. As the village was full of werewolves and their kin, there was little need for a nurse, but Mrs. McCall couldn't let her hands lay idle in her sorrow. Stiles had almost been like a second son to her. Isaac was with her offering comfort and helping with the kitchen work. Mrs. McCall split her days between the kitchen and pulling Mr. Stalinski out of the bottle.

Scott wasn't sure how the others handled the loss of Stiles or Derek and their friends. Scott wasn't in a position to comfort them. As much as he wanted to live up to alpha potential and be a rock for his pack, the only days Scott  didn't have to force himself to get out of bed were after the nights he didn't sleep at all.

 "In here," Granny Maria ordered and guided him through the pure white doors of the village church. Scott frowned and the old woman patted his arm. "Oh, don't you worry your pretty head. I'm not saying Gabriel’s way is wrong and I'm not saying my way is right, but if you want to embrace either magic, you'll find it easier in here."

 The church had been built in the old style with ornate architecture and white stucco painted with bright colors in amazing patterns. It was in essence the crown jewel of the village. Scott had heard Stiles talk about the mythical origins of werewolves and their connection to Norse Mythology, but Maria insisted with a twinkle in her eye that human scholars were mistaken. Civilization was far older than originally believed. Magic was even older and the gods predated even that.

 With Maria's aid Scott hummed a few verses before he grew more confident with his tone. Drawn in by their leader’s human howls Isaac and Erica joined in.

 " _In constant sorrow all through his days_ ," they sang with Maria's help. Maria smiled encouragingly and the teenagers admitted that the music had been therapeutic, but they failed to see the point.

 "Song is the oldest and most powerful form of prayer." Maria explained. "Humans learned to sing before they learned to talk. As wolves you shouldn't fear your voice."

 "You said I could see my friends again," Scott said cautiously. "What did you mean?"

 "Are you familiar with the story of Orpheus?" Maria asked. The teens shrugged in reply. Although Greek mythology had been a subject in school, they had been distracted by other things.

 "Are you saying it's possible to _raise_ _the dead_?"

 The wolves turned their heads to the church entrance. Lydia had managed to sneak up on them and looked at Maria expectantly for an answer.

 "Isn't Peter proof of that?" Erica drawled. Scott snarled slightly at the mention of that name and she instantly shut up.

 "It would be a similar process to making an appeal to your Supreme Court." Maria told them. "If there is just cause, then it can be done."

 "Just cause," Lydia repeated. "Or is it more like being a smooth talking lawyer?"

 Maria chuckled, "You can't bullshit the gods. By the time you got through all the red tape, so to speak, to appeal for all of your friends' lives lost in battle you will have died of old age."

 Lydia raised an eyebrow. "But?" she prompted.

 "It should be possible to plead your case for one friend." Maria said. "Of all you lost is there one your group can agree on? Of course not. You've all lost friends, lovers, and family. This is why it is not within human ability to raise the dead. Magic needs conviction above all things. Just as grief is too heavy for one person to bear alone, it is too much for one person alone to bring the dead back to life. When you sing conviction comes easy which is why it is the simplest and most pure form of magic. Music is the universal language and you can use it to appeal to the gods."

 Lydia looked intrigued. "How do they do it then?"

 "Gods are above life and death and are privy to that which we are not," Maria said. "As such life and death are not black and white issues to the gods. Be warned, however, that good and evil are also not black and white topics to higher beings. There are even such gods who would defend your enemies' actions as just in the greater scheme of things."

 "What?! How?" the teens demanded.

 "The gods exist to be mysterious in their reasons and methods," Maria replied with a shrug.

 Scott took a deep breath. "What can we do? How do we avoid becoming Gerard or Peter, a monster?"

 "Monster is a relative term," Maria said. "But you are correct. I do know the secret that will, at the very least, help you. The outcome wouldn't be perfect nor what you had before, but it would be an easier burden than accepting loss in its entirety and becoming a fisherman."

 "That's what Gabriel wants." Erica wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like fishing.”

 "Gabriel wants you all to be happy. You've been through so much for ones so young." Marie explained. "My way is not easy and it could end very badly for you if you fail."

 "And _what_ is your way exactly?"

* * *

 

 Sunday evening Scott could hear the voices rising from the Church. They sang, " _You gotta walk that lonesome valley/You gotta walk it by yourself/Nobody here can walk it for you/You gotta walk it by yourself._ " 

It couldn't have been more appropriate as he sat before the small hilltop fire stripped down to the bare essentials in body and in spirit. From his seat he could see the river shining under moonlight like a silver plate. He was about to go on a spirit journey and seek out the old gods to give him back something he had lost. He hadn't told the pack or his mother about this decision. He didn't want to get their hopes up and Granny Maria warned that there was a significantly high chance that he would fail and that not a single god would take his case.

The old woman advised him as best she was able which was better than anyone else could have.

"Go forth like a beggar and hold out your bowl," Maria told him. "Ask for nothing more than they are willing to give."

"Have you been there?" Scott asked trying to settle his nerves.

"Never," Maria admitted. "Or I should say, not yet. I have heard of this place in the tunes of every culture. It is heaven for the contented and hell for the wicked all in the same space. It is the home of the first beings.  The first animals, the first plants, the first peoples-"

 "The first werewolf?" Scott asked.

 "Perhaps." Maria admitted but didn't elaborate. "It is time," she said and put a mystery powder over the flames.

 The scent of the fire relaxed Scott and he felt himself fall backwards into unconsciousness except a too real dream surrounded him. He felt himself drift like a tiny boat on the river until he could feel the hard wood planks press into his side.

 Scott sat up and almost immediately fell over again as his limbs became tangled. It felt to him like they were not as they should be. Looking down, to Scott's dismay he saw big black paws were his hands and feet should be. His tail whipped about in a panic as he tried to get up and all Scott managed to do was tip the little boat and fall backwards into the drink.

 Paddling furiously the werewolf poked his nose above the river waters and looked around. In the distance he saw Granny Maria's fire and set forth in that direction. His perturbed grumbles came out more like a growl, but there was little he could do about it. Magic, as always, had proven more unreliable than it was worth.  Scott just hoped the old witch knew a way to change him back into a bipedal form at least.

 After dragging his sopping self onto the bank and shaking the sand out of his paws, Scott trot up the hill side following the smell of smoke. When he reached the crest, however, it was not an old woman attending the fire, but an old man with a long white beard. The wolf skidded to a stop and sniffed the air curiously trying to assess the danger.

 The old man looked up and gave a reassuring smile. "Well, hello there, young friend,” he greeted politely. “Would you like to come and sit by my fire and dry yourself?"

 Scott gave another hesitant sniff before sitting next to the old man.

 “I see you are a visitor to these lands.” The man gave a cordial nod. "To answer your obvious confusion I am a fairy creature, old as time and have many years to grow older still," he explained conversationally. "My brethren call me the King of the Silver River."

 Scott cocked his head.

 "I am ruler of my own world, but I am still a part of this one." The King of the Silver River explained, "All worlds are connected. What affects one affects the others. So, tell me, young friend, what brings you to the Spirit Realm?"

 Scott thought for a moment. Without human vocal cords he was unsure how to tell this fairy king of his blight. Then he remembered what Granny Maria had said in the church about prayer songs and wolf voices.  Taking the hint Scott tipped back his head and pointed his nose up to the heavens like an arrow.

 Scott opened his throat and howled. It was much easier in this form than in his human one. His voice started low and grew and grew. In mid song his voice raised an octave and fell again like a broken bird. He knew this song. It was a calling song that wolves used to find their packmates. When his voice died away Scott laid down with his head resting on his front paws. There was no pack to answer him.

 The old man nodded understandingly. "I see. I wish it were in my powers to help you, but all I can offer is the warmth of my fire."

 Scott looked up at the man hopefully with the wettest, biggest puppy eyes he could muster.

 The old man chuckled. "And perhaps I could guide your way."

 Scott wagged his tail and gave a soft yip of gratitude. When both were satisfiably warm and dry the old man put out the fire with a wave of his hand and the two started the way down the path. They traveled at a gentle pace. Off to the side an inviting smell caught Scott's nose. A small patch of orange colored flowers opened up to him causing the young werewolf to open his maw with a toothy smile.

 "That's poor-man's-weather-grass," the old fairy said as he plucked a single bloom from the cluster and tucked the flower behind Scott’s ear. "It's come early this season. I guess it wanted to meet you."

 Scott looked up at the man in confusion and the old man chuckled.

 "It's the first of its kind," the old man explained. "It's what the earliest of your people called a Great Ancestor. It's a deity of sorts."

 Scott blinked at him before glancing back to see the plant was mysteriously gone from sight. The old man had started walking again and called behind him, "Come along, my young friend. The way is not long now."

 It was the sounds that Scott detected first. Music in every form layered one over the other forming a majesty of discord. He heard the drums first. Their booming rhythm carried over the land. He heard drums of every size and shape. Then he heard the brass instruments, then the wind instruments, and lastly the strings. By that time Scott's nose was assaulted by the smells of food, joy, amusement, and faint traces of lust.

 "You have come at a good time," the fairy king said. "It is the Hundred Years Gathering, a festival that brings together and unites. Spirits from all over the world come to mingle and trade. Even the less social spirits have come. Perhaps someone here will grant your wish."

 Scott doubted that. Granny Maria had made it very clear that the gods weren't out to grant mortal wishes. If the werewolf had any divine luck to speak of a deity would see Scott as a valuable asset and be willing to make a trade.

 In fact Scott was puzzled by the kindness displayed by the King of the Silver River. It went against everything Granny Maria had warned, but at the same time Scott believed he could trust the old fairy. He didn't know why he felt that way, but he wasn't going to doubt this instinct. It warmed him to think that there was at least one truly kind person left in the world and if Scott was lucky he just might find two of such people.

 With the fairy king as his guide through the narrow maze of streets Scott's ears perked up to catch the traces of music in the air. He thought perhaps he could catch that one song that stood out from the rest. It was hard for him to pick out the different voices and nothing called to him beyond the catchy nature of the music.

 Finally, a soft wail crept into his hearing. As soft and sad as a lullaby a song drifted out of an alley way and seemed so out of place in the happy markets and festivities.

 The voice sang,  " _Oh, beat the drum slowly and  play the fife lowly/Sing the Death March as you carry me along/Take me to the green valley, there lay the  sod over me/For I'm a young trickster and I've done no wrong._ "

 Scott turned the corner and saw a roll of white linen. He poked the white ball with his nose and found it to be deathly cold. When the linen moved, however, Scott leapt back with a startled growl. The roll of linen fell over with an audible groan and continued to whistle and sing its sad song.

 " _Bring six tall cowboys to carry my casket/Make ten pretty women to sing me a song/Take me to the green valley, there lay the sod o'er me/For I'm a young trickster and I've done no wrong_."

 The King of the Silver River sighed. "First time out of the mountains in decades and this is how you chose to spend your time, hermit?"

 A pair of shiny bronze-colored eyes peaked out of the linen roll and a soft snort sounded. "You mean my _last_ trip out of the mountains.”  It asked, “Don't you have humanity to save or is that not for another few decades yet?"

 "The Word and the Lady remain strong," the King of the Silver River replied. "There is still much time before my fated role."

 The linen roll growled out a laugh. "Should I tell the demons to up their game then? We wouldn't want you to get bored now."

 "I believe it is humanity's best interest that _you_ not be bored," the King of the Silver River countered. "Which is an excellent segue into the blight of our young friend here." He patted Scott's shoulder lightly.

 A human head popped out of the linen roll and a slender body followed. Although the creature's form was that of an adult, it was smallish and too androgynous for Scott to distinguish a gender. The creature was muscular and had odd colored patches of skin that almost looked like a fur pattern. Scott sniffed the air carefully to try to get a read on the being, but failed to identify which species the figure belonged to. The werewolf bristled a little bit at the thought of asking the aid of a trickster.

 As if reading Scott's mind the figure raised a dark auburn eyebrow and said, "Oh, but a trickster is exactly what you need. You could ask some of the older, more powerful beings to help you and I will laugh as they look down their noses at you. It's not my fault that we tricksters have such poor reputations in certain circles."

 "Well after the prank of gifting humanity with the knowledge of fire," the King of the Silver River said, "You can't really blame your peers for their annoyance at your people’s antics."

 The creature rolled its eyes. "But that wasn't me."

 "And then someone 'borrowed' the knowledge of writing and somehow it also ended up in human hands," the King of the Silver River continued.

 "Also was not me," the creature replied. It puffed up a little bit. "But I see your point."

 "In fact I would suspect that you so-called 'tricksters' are in fact big softies and you just don't want anyone to notice, so you all cause trouble to hide it."

 The creature frowned at that. "What do you want old man?"

 "Me? Nothing." The King of the River shrugged innocently.

 The creature nodded towards Scott.  "What's with the flea bag then?"

 Scott growled softly at the insult.

 "I was merely showing the young one around the spirit realm." The King of the Silver River said dismissively. "You know I have a soft spot for lost travelers."

 The creature groaned and dropped its head to its knees. It whined, "You're a genuinely nice person, you know that?"

 "Thank you," the King of the Silver River said.

 "That is _not_ a complement," the creature complained. "It makes me want to do nice things for people and I _hate_ doing nice things for people."

 "I'm not making you do anything you don’t already want to do," the fairy king smirked. "I refuse to take the blame for something you see as a golden opportunity."

 "You drive a hard bargain," the creature plucked the orange flower still tangled in Scott’s furry ear. Then the creature stood up and dusted off its toned legs. "Come along then, wolf-boy.  We might as well get this done while everyone else is distracted by the festivities."

 Scott blinked before nodding his thanks to the fairy king and following after the strange creature. He wasn't entirely certain what had just happened between the two spirit's verbal exchange, but he was optimistic for the first time in quite a while that luck was indeed back on his side.

* * *

 

 "The King of the Silver River is one of my favorite people. I could never refuse my favorite people a favor, even an implied one." The creature held the orange flower closely to its eye and stared at it wistfully as they crept along the shadows of the town. "I could get into a lot of trouble for this, so don't think for a second my services are free."

Scott barked quietly to convey his understanding.

 "Good," the creature said. "We're here."

 The duo stopped in front of a warehouse. Unlike the rest of the city, this district was quiet and unlit.  Scott couldn't read the signs above the towering red doors, but the creature was kind enough to explain that it was a ceramics factory. Scott cocked his head with the implied question and the creature grinned.

 "I'm a hermit," the creature said. "I'm very good at _making_ friends."

 There was amusement in the creature's tone that suggested there was more to that statement than it was letting on. Inside the factory was the largest oven Scott had ever seen. The pilot lights were burning low since the oven was not in use, but the heat was already intense.

 "Over here!" the creature called.

 The creature picked up two large barrels that looked like they would be too heavy for it to lift alone, but the creature managed just fine. Inside the barrels were a clear liquid that the creature poured over itself and Scott. Tilting its head the creature looked at Scott carefully and said, "This process might be easier if you have thumbs."

 And just like magic, it was so.

 Scott found himself kneeling on all fours, but back in human form. Scott tried to cover his state of undress in embarrassment, but the creature had already turned its back and began pointing to the stack of logs next to the oven.

 "Throw all of those into the fire,” the creature ordered.

 "They won't smother it?" Scott asked as he moved to obey.

 "We're on a bit of a time constraint," the creature said as it began looking into the other jars.

 "What are you looking for?" Scott asked as he hoisted a couple logs onto his back and dragged them. He ground his teeth with the effort and hoped conversation would distract him from his aching muscles. Werewolf or not the logs were heavy.

 " _Ingredients_ ," the creature replied.

 "Ingredients for what?"

 "A cake," the creature snapped sarcastically.

 "A cake?" Scott repeated.

 The creature rolled its eyes. "No, we're making a body, stupid boy. How do you expect your friend to survive without a body?"

 Scott's pulse jumped with excitement. "You really can bring them back?"

 "Maybe." The creature held up a small jar to the light to try and read its contents. "Wind and clay is the easiest recipe I know, but it's like leaving a plate of tollhouse cookies on the counter and expect nobody to eat them. I'm sort of going to have to make this up as I go."

 "W-who are you making?" Scott asked. "Wait, how do you know who my friends are anyway?"

 "I'm not even going to dignify that last question with an answer," the creature said while lining up an array of carefully selected bottles on the floor. "As to _who_ , well, that depends."

 "Depends on what?"

 The creature looked up at him and explained. "I have to use my own magic as a catalyst. Even if everybody is made of the same basic squishy stuff, people can die from an organ transplant if their body rejects it."

 "So it has to be someone compatible with your magic?" Scott pressed trying not to think of Allison. He could already tell that this creature was pretty much the exact opposite of his deceased girlfriend in every way. He tried to figure out which, if any, of his fallen comrades might be compatible with this creature. He dared not to hope.

 The creature got busy mixing the potions and powders in a similar manner to baking. Scott got a sense that the creature was magically taste testing the ingredients trying to find a good combination. At last the creature seemed satisfied with the outcome and poured the mixture over huge blocks red clay.

 The room was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable, like Scott was standing in a sauna. He suspected that the  clear liquid from earlier was a form of protection, but even then the creature was sweating profusely as it  shaped the clay into oblong shapes about twice the size of a human body. When the creature finished there were six clay shapes without any distinctive features.

Scott looked on worriedly as the creature tossed the six shapes into the giant oven (Scott realized it was actually a kiln) and closed the door. The kiln was gourd shaped and as tall as the warehouse roof and wide as half the room.  Once the door was closed it locked and the creature collapsed in exhaustion.

 "You made six," Scott said in awe.

 "Half of twelve, but you'll be lucky if even _one_ comes out right," the creature warned. "Even then, those are just a body. Once they are done I'll need to fetch the other half of the equation." The creature continued explaining before Scott could even ask. "A _soul_. Without a soul they'll just be like vegetables. It could take me a while to find a compatible one."

 Scott's heart squeezed in his chest. "You mean... they'll be my...but at the same time not?"

 The creature nodded. "Yes, if I can't find the original soul in this world, as a ghost or something, I'll have to pull one from the other worlds. I can promise it'll be the right person, but I can't promise it'll be the same version of them. They might have different memories or other things."

 Scott slumped. "Then this was all for nothing."

 The creature shrugged. "Up to you, pal, if you want to see it that way. The only thing I can promise is getting as close as I can. I would love to sit down and explain the very complex workings of the life, the universe, and everything in it, but we'll just have to settle for six times seven." The creature glanced at a clock on the wall. "It's almost 42 minutes. They should be done cooking by then and all you have to do is hop into the oven and pull them out."

 "I have to do _what_ now?!"

 "Brave the infernos of hell," the creature said dryly while waving jazz hands. "Go forth and rescue, _great hero_."

 "...You are the biggest troll I have ever met."

 " _Trickster_ ,” the creature smirked gleefully. "You're cute, but you're not that cute. It doesn't change the fact that _I'm_ not going in there and _you_ are."

 The young werewolf swallowed uneasily and approached the kiln. Sweat covered his body and he was suddenly grateful for the lack of attire. Scott didn’t think there were any clothes that could survive the intense heat. The kiln door swung open. Scott instinctively brought up his arms and took a step back away from the wave of heat that blasted into the open air. The experience was like standing at the edge of a volcano or a literal gate to Hell. Scott’s survival instincts hissed for him to turn back and that the odds weren’t worth his life.

 Just as he was about to turn back, through the waves of heat a twitch of movement caught Scott’s eye and his human instincts took over.

The clay had hardened and something inside rocked in weak distress. Scott beat his fist against the outer shell until it crumbled. He clasped the hand that reached out to him with nothing more than bodily instinct to live.

 The werewolf bent at the knees and pulled the pale specimen, which he could only pray was human, over his shoulder in a fireman carry. Reminisce of clay still covered the person’s body, but the figure was decidedly male and was squirming uncooperatively.

 “I’m trying to save you!” Scott groaned as he almost dropped his load. “Stop moving around!”

 “Little hero!” the creature called from the entrance of the kiln. “If you don’t hurry the elixir will wear off and I’m not going to save you.”

 “I’m trying!” Scott shot back. The person in his arms let out a muffled noise and reached back behind them imploringly. The action cost the form all of its fragile energy and it let out a pitiful soft cry too short to be a moan.

 Scott heard the sound of shuffling as another clay figure moved just once before it stopped. The werewolf could already feel the floor of the kiln starting to affect his feet. His sweat didn’t even make it to the floor before it evaporated as steam. Scott realized horrified that unlike him, the figures were unprotected outside of their clay shells.

 “Little hero!” the creature called again more anxiously. “If you don’t leave now you’ll die!”

 “Dammit!” Scott growled.

 He tightened his grip on the form over his should and turned around to retrieve the second. He broke the outer shell with his foot and groaned as he tried to hoist the second figure over his shoulder. Somehow Scott knew that if he crumpled and fell all three of them would die. He couldn’t let the unprotected forms touch the hot floor, but his burden was getting heavier by the second. Scott felt his legs shaking under the pressure as they moved at a snail’s pace. The werewolf feared his time would run out and it was that fear that tripped his transformation.

 Scott’s eyes glowed red and he let out a determined snarl. His clawed feet dug grooves into the red hot floor and Scott pushed forward with everything he had. Blisters were forming on the bottom of his feet, but Scott paid it no mind. He was an alpha. His body would heal, but he would never get another chance like this again. He hung on to the two figures like a lifeline.

 After what seemed like a painful eternity, Scott finally stumbled out of the kiln and into the waiting arms of the creature. The creature laid the forms gently on a clean linen cloth and checked their condition.

 Scott huffed and choked on the clean, cool air of the outside. His feet hurt like nothing else he had ever felt and his eyes watered from the kiln’s smoke. Miraculously Scott found the strength not to turn around and think about the remaining clay forms turning into charcoal after being left behind in the fire. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths in an attempt to will his body to heal faster.

 “It was dodgy there for a moment,” the creature’s voice broke Scott out of his reverie. “But they’ll live. _Both_ of them.”

 The creature turned and gave Scott a hard thump on the head. “No thanks to your brazen foolishness. What were you thinking?”

 “It’s not my fault!” Scott protested. “He didn’t want to leave without the second one!”

 The creature gazed at him unimpressed. “They’re as weak as new born kittens and about as mentally competent as tomato soup. Persuasion was not a necessary factor.”

 “But they are okay?” Scott asked weakly.

 “Physically, yes,” the creature confirmed. “Now they just need a soul. Until I find said souls it will be just like they were in a coma.”

 “But alive?” Scott looked over at the two figures anxiously.

 Neither form had a single hair on their body. A layer of clay made their faces indistinguishable and all Scott could smell was traces left from the kiln. The werewolf was beyond curious as to the identity of his rescuees.

 “Can you walk?” the creature asked.

 Scott nodded affirmatively.

 “Good.” The creature rolled up the bodies to keep them warm. The creature picked up one and pointed at Scott to carry the other. “We need to go now. Someone will have noticed the smell of the burning clay and will come to investigate.”

 “What will they do if someone finds us?”

 “I wasn’t joking about the cookie comparison. Fortunately, I know a shortcut back to the human realm.” The creature adjusted its bundle with a gentle toss. “And on the way we can discuss the payment for my services.”

 Scott’s belly filled with dread.

 “I don’t suppose you’d give me a discount?” He asked weakly.

 The creature huffed.

 “I already am,” the creature admitted with mischievous eyes. “I’ll only be charging you for the bodies. Someone else has already paid for the souls.”

* * *

 

 Two heart rate monitors beat together in a disjointed rhythm bringing a note of melancholy to the brightly lit infirmary. The room was warm from the afternoon sunlight peaking around white curtains. One of the monitors beat a little faster as its charge came slowly into wakefulness. The patient frowned in confusion as he was assaulted by a symphony of odd smells and unfamiliar textures against his bare skin.

 “What are we going to tell him?” Scott asked uncertainly.

 The creature, now in a human vessel and dressed in sheepskin clothing with ivory accents, knelt beside the sickbed and took hold of the occupant’s wrist as if to check his pulse. “Let’s start with the truth and go from there,” the creature suggested. When the patient opened his greenish eyes the creature said, “Hey there, big guy. Still feeling a little woozy?”

 The patient gave an aborted nod and turned a little green from the effort.

 “That’s okay,” the creature said soothingly. “I’m going to ask you a couple questions to make sure you’re all there, okay?”

 “Okay,” the patient replied.

 “What’s your name, tough guy?”

 The patient’s face wrinkled in concentration. “Derek. Derek Hale.”

 “How old are you?”

 Derek gave the creature a deer-in-the-head-lights look.

 The creature rubbed the back of his hand encouragingly. “Take your time,” it said.

 “Sixteen?”

 Scott let out a soft gasp and the creature ignored him. Scott had already been warned of the instability of the clay making process. Once the identity solidified it couldn’t be altered. If Derek thought he was sixteen then his body would make him so and any memories he had acquired post that age would be gone.

 “We can skip the question if you’re not sure.” The creature told him. “What high school did you go to?”

 “Beacon Hills.”

 “The town where you live?”

 “Same.”

 “Do you know where you are now?”

 “No. Am I in a hospital?”

 “Is that what you think?”

 Derek thought about it. “No, that’s not what I think. Who are you?”

 “Do you think you can figure it out?” the creature tilted its head in a mock challenge. “Do you remember what happened to you Derek?”

 “You-!” Derek cut himself off. His eyes glowed, not alpha red, yellow at first and then blue. “Peter. _Peter_ killed me.” Derek’s body started shaking. “My family… Kate… the fire…”

 “I’m sorry that happened to you,” the creature murmured. “That wasn’t fair to you or to them.”

 “Why?!” Derek demanded. “Why did you bring me back?! I was _dead_! I _deserved_ to die!”

 The creature let out a hiss of pain as his claws dug into its arm. At the same time a spider web of red veins appeared on the creature’s hand that had a firm grip on Derek’s pulse. In an instant Derek calmed down.

 “You’re taking my pain,” he said.

 “My people have empathic abilities,” the creature explained. “Physically, you are fine. Your emotional state, however, is still enough to kill you.”

 “You’re a fox.”

 “I am.”

 “You brought me back.”

 “I did,” The fox admitted.

 “Why?” Derek glanced up at Scott. “There’s no way _he_ would have asked you to.”

 “You are my hostage,” the fox said sternly.

 Both Derek and Scott glanced at the fox god in shock. The fox was still draining Derek’s emotional pain, but at the same time was staring unwavering into the werewolf’s eyes.

 “I am a fox.” The fox said. “My eyes are brown, the sky is blue, I am right handed, my favorite food is ketchup, and my favorite day of the week is Thursday.”

 “The sky was a half truth. The Thursday and right handedness was a lie,” Derek said slowly. “Is your favorite food really ketchup?”

 “I can’t lie to you without you knowing and Thursday is a terrible day.” The fox smirked. “Since I have revived you, you are now in my care. You are my hostage and I can use you as leverage. You don’t have to do anything. If you want to kill yourself, I won’t stop you and it won’t release you from my charge.”

 “Leverage?”

 “Your Beacon Hills is relatively close to my territory. You should come say hello sometime.”

 “Leverage for what?”

 “Protection.” The fox explained. “With you as a hostage I can sue your first ancestor for protection for my species. My children are dying as a result of the supernatural instability of the region and I don’t have the necessary connections to prevent that. Your ancestor does. Again, you don’t have to do anything, but I would appreciate it if you stayed within the continental United States after you return and again being alive is merely a request, not a requirement.”

 Scott interrupted. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

 The fox turned to look at him, “It wasn’t important for _you_ to know. You wanted a discount for my services. I gave you the conditions and you agreed to your part. I do nothing for humans out of charity. You've got me mistaken for other tricksters.”

 “What conditions?” Derek demanded.

“Scott is going to take back Beacon Hills.” The fox said. “You’ll be helping him.”

 “Why should I help him?”

 The fox raised an eyebrow. “Out of loyalty for your family’s packlands? For the sake of the world? Because the rabbits are tasty? I don’t care about your reasons.”

 Scott broke in, “What about Stiles?”

 To their left the heart rate monitor was still beating in a steady pattern. The occupant of the adjacent bed was wrapped up like a mummy and only just barely resembled a person.

 The fox god sighed. “It won’t be your Stiles,” it said and Scott gave a low whine. “Your Stiles has moved on. Not to heaven, but close enough.”

 Derek choked on air. “He was supposed to use the pendent!”

 “He did.”

 “He should be alive!”

 “He is.”

 “Not in a coma!”

 “Amateur magic causes problems for the rest of us.” The fox muttered and turned to Scott. “It’s your call. It won’t be _him_ -him, but it’ll still be, well, him.”

 “I still need Stiles,” Scott said firmly.

 The fox gave a wry smirk. “Even a lame one?”

 “No such thing!” Scott insisted with a smile. “I mean, we’ll make due.”

 The fox stood up and gave Derek a swat on the head. “Be nice to this one. He won’t know about werewolves or magic.”

 “Then what good is he?” Derek growled.

 The fox huffed, “Someone thinks he’s important. You might be surprised.”

 “You said another god vouched for him,” Scott murmured. “You were doing them a favor?”

 The fox nodded and pulled out an orange flower from its coat pocket. “I could never deny my favorite people a favor,” the fox said and placed the flower gently in Stiles’s hand. Once it was done the person in question opened his eyes.

 “Dad?” he asked weakly.

 “Stiles!” Scott rushed over and leaned down to look at his friend.

 “Scott? Where am I?” He tried to sit up. “This doesn’t look like Beacon Hills general.”

 Scott half laughed half sobbed. “It’s not. You’re in Argentina.”

 “I’m _what_?!”

 Scott gripped Stiles shoulder. “It’s going to sound really confusing when I explain, but you were dead.”

 “I was dead.” Stiles repeated dryly.

 “You were dead, I’m a werewolf, and we’re hiding out in Argentina from the bad guys.” Scott told him.

 “Oh, my god.” Stiles groaned. “That’s not even funny, dude. I hit a _deer_! You are not going to mess with my concussed brain!”

 “He’s telling the truth,” the fox cut in. “Although humans have long forgotten _my_ name, you should know the names of my elder brothers, _Kwahn_ , _Esa_ , and _Jamul_.”

 Stiles stopped and looked at the fox quizzically. “Silver-fox, Coyote, and Wolf? The Native American gods of _Creation_?!”

 “My name means ‘Fox-of-the-snowy-saw-like-mountains’.” The fox flashed its bronze colored eyes.

 “Oh my god!”

 “If you want,” the fox said smugly.

 Stiles pointed at Scott. “And you’re a werewolf?”

 Scott nodded and flashed his red alpha eyes.

 “And I’m really not dead?” Stiles asked. He gave a very unmanly squeal as Scott pinched him. “But how?”

 “Alternative universe,” the fox replied. “You died in your world, so I revived you and pulled you into this one.”

 “So I died in this world too?”

 “Afraid so.”

 “So what happened to the me of this world?”

 “A werewolf ate him.”

 “…And how do I make sure that _doesn’t_ happen again?”

 Scott chuckled. “You better study up on magic then. You’ve got a hidden talent for it, you know?”

 “No, I did not know!” Stiles looked around excitedly. “Okay, okay, I believe you, but you have got to start at the beginning.”

 “Sure thing,” Scott agreed. “But before that there’s somebody who really wants to see you.”

 Scott and the fox walked into the next room and signaled for the waiting adults that it was okay to go in. The loud and joyous reunion forced even the hardy fox deity to wipe away misty eyes the moment the first “Dad!”and “Stiles!” had been exchanged.

 “I must go, little hero,” the fox told Scott. “The gathering ends tonight and they’ll be trying to track down who broke in to the factory.”

 “I remember my promise,” Scott looked down in shame. “Stiles is going to hate me for it, but it’s worth it if he’s alive.”

 "Stiles won’t hate you,” the fox assured him. “He’ll be pissed, probably, but as I told you it needs to be done so I can cover my tracks.”

 “I know,” Scott said. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought. “As soon as my mom says it’s safe for Stiles to move we’ll go to Chile and I’ll tip off the hunters about Gabriel’s pack. It’s just… there are kids here, you know?”

 “I know, but secrets are kept that way for a reason,” the fox reminded. “If humans knew about werewolves it wouldn’t _just_ be werewolves that are hunted to extinction. Gabriel’s an idealist. He needs to learn that just because _you_ got a lucky break doesn’t mean the gods will be at _his_ beck and call.”

 “That’s a bit harsh for a life lesson.”

 “Mysterious ways, little hero. The gods work in mysterious ways” The fox turned with a wave. “If you’re ever in my neck of the woods, don’t hesitate to drop me a line.”

 “Sure thing, and thanks.”

 “Pft, don’t thank me yet.” The fox smirked. “You guys are _my_ playthings now. If you’re lucky, I’ll only make your lives hell.”

 

To Be Continued...


End file.
